The Changing of the Seasons
by PipMer
Summary: It's been fifteen years since Sherlock and John have been in the same country, let alone the same room. What happens when the prodigal son returns? Post-Series 3. Eventual happy ending, eventual Sherlock/John.
1. Prologue

**A/N: This story begins several years after the events in Series 3 of Sherlock. Sherlock and John have been out of contact for a very long time. This is the story of how they make their way back to each other. Angst, eventual happy ending, eventual Johnlock. Warnings: Series 3 spoilers, minor character deaths.**

**Many thanks to batik96 for the fantastic beta, and to prettybirdy979 for her steadfast encouragement and support.**

**This story is un-britpicked at this time, but may change in future. As always, thanks for reading!**

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><p><em>When I look into your eyes<em>  
><em>I can see a love restrained<em>  
><em>But darling, when I hold you<em>  
><em>Don't you know I feel the same?<em>

_'Cause nothing lasts forever_  
><em>And we both know hearts can change<em>  
><em>And it's hard to hold a candle<em>  
><em>In the cold November rain<em>

_We've been through this such a long, long time_  
><em>Just trying to kill the pain, ooh yeah<em>  
><em>But lovers always come and lovers always go<em>  
><em>And no one's really sure who's letting go today, walking away<em>  
><em>If we could take the time to lay it on the line<em>  
><em>I could rest my head just knowing that you were mine, all mine<em>

_So if you want to love me_  
><em>Then darling, don't refrain<em>  
><em>Or I'll just end up walking<em>  
><em>In the cold November rain<em>

_Do you need some time on your own?_  
><em>Do you need some time all alone?<em>  
><em>Ooh, everybody needs some time on their own<em>  
><em>Ooh, don't you know you need some time all alone?<em>

_I know it's hard to keep an open heart_  
><em>When even friends seem out to harm you<em>  
><em>But if you could heal a broken heart<em>  
><em>Wouldn't time be out to charm you?<em>  
><em>Oh!<em>

_Sometimes I need some time on my own_  
><em>Sometimes I need some time all alone<em>  
><em>Everybody needs some time on their own<em>  
><em>Don't you know you need some time all alone?<em>

_And when your fears subside_  
><em>And shadows still remain<em>  
><em>I know that you can love me<em>  
><em>When there's no one left to blame<em>

_So never mind the darkness_  
><em>We still can find a way<em>  
><em>'Cause nothing lasts forever<em>  
><em>Even cold November rain<em>

_Don't you think that you need somebody?_  
><em>Don't you think that you need someone?<em>  
><em>Everybody needs somebody<em>  
><em>You're not the only one<em>  
><em>You're not the only one<em>

**-_November Rain, by Guns N' Roses_**

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><p><strong>PROLOGUE<strong>

**March 2032**

He stared out the window at the scenery passing by in a blur, wondering not for the first time if this was a very bad idea. Rolling green hills and sparkling blue waters rushed by in a steady stream of beauty, but he saw none of it. His mind was on his destination, hundreds of miles and another country away. There were dozens of ways this could go horribly wrong; he was sure he had already lived through most of them in his head. But he had never been a coward -

Oh, who was he kidding? The sooner he stopped lying to himself, the better.

Before he had a chance to talk himself out of it, he pulled out his mobile and opened his London contact list. His eyes grew soft as he scrolled down the names, nostalgia and sentiment tugging on his memory. Over the years he had tried deleting them, more than once. But every time his finger hovered and trembled over the delete button, a sharp ache lanced through his chest and panic paralyzed his muscles. Those names represented everyone he had loved and cared about during the most crucial time of his life. To get rid of them would mean getting rid of the best part of himself.

A few weeks ago he had tested a couple of the numbers, choosing the two people he felt would receive him with the least amount of hostility. Unsurprisingly, both Molly and Lestrade's numbers were out of service. He supposed that most of them on his list would be, but he was counting on one in particular remaining unchanged. The name attached to it, after all, was less of an individual entity than a title/position. There was a chance the secure line was the same as it had been fifteen years ago.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, held it for ten seconds, and slowly released it. It didn't do much to calm the fluttery dance in the pit of his stomach, but it did take the edge off. He opened his eyes and straightened his shoulders, nodded at his reflection, and dialed the number. Hand shaking, he raised the phone to his ear and waited.

After an eternity, the line connected. "Mycroft Holmes," a familiar smooth voice said.

"Mycroft."

Five beats passed, tension crackling between the airwaves.

"Dr Watson," the voice finally replied, timbre lowered and substantially colder.

John swallowed.

"I'm back. I mean, I'm coming back. To London. I'm on the train now from Inverness."

Silence.

"Mycroft?"

"Why are you telling me this, Dr Watson?"

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're the only one I've been able to reach - "

"That's not quite true, is it? You haven't tried to contact my brother yet. Why is that?"

"Surely his number's changed."

"Just because _you_ felt the need to make a fresh start doesn't mean the same was true for him. Sherlock's had the same number he's always had. His website is still functional, as well, so you could also reach him through that avenue."

The shock of that name being spoken aloud, after so many years of neither speaking nor hearing it, sent the equivalent of an electric shock through John's body. All the air was sucked out of his lungs. His left hand tightened around the phone and his right fist clenched on his knee. Hyper-awareness of his surroundings flooded in, from the rocking of the carriage to the clacking of the wheels on the tracks.

"Ah, I see. You're planning to just show up on his doorstep, aren't you? You really haven't thought this through much at all, have you, Dr Watson?"

"I just … I thought that …"

"That you would show up at Baker Street and find everything just as you left it? I hate to be the one to break it to you, but when you arrive at 221b, you'll find it empty and abandoned. It's been so for the past two years."

John closed his eyes. "Mrs Hudson…"

"Passed away five years ago. She left everything to Sherlock, of course."

John wanted to ask, but found the words wouldn't push past his throat. _Did he ever find someone else? To share the flat with, or to solve cases with? _Surely he had. A mind that luminous wouldn't have remained isolated for long. There must have been someone who had been attracted by the strong force of his personality.

"There was no one after you, Dr Watson. Not for any of it. A handful of friends, perhaps. But never anything the likes of what he shared with you."

Grief and guilt rendered John speechless. Grief, expected though it was, for the woman who had been the epitome of home for both Sherlock and John for so many years. Guilt for the vision of Sherlock enduring three years in a place awash in memories, alone with no companionship to help assuage the emptiness he must have felt after Mrs Hudson's death.

"So where is he now?"

"Give me one good reason why I should tell you that." Icy fury laced Mycroft's tone. John didn't blame him for being angry, not one bit. He replied with the only answer he could, the only honest thing he could say that might go even a little way toward thawing Mycroft's rage.

"I want to tell him I'm sorry. For everything. And that I'd like a chance to make things right, if he'll give it to me."

"How many second chances do you think you deserve, Dr Watson?"

"None. And maybe he'll refuse to even see me. But I need to at least try."

There was silence on the other end for about thirty seconds. John knew it was a test of some sort, so he quashed his natural impatience and forced himself to wait it out.

"There's one thing I need to make you aware of, to make sure you understand, before I tell you where you can find him. After that, you'll get no more lectures from me. What happens next is up to Sherlock."

"I'm listening."

"Sherlock never once broke the vow he made to you on your wedding day. He clawed his way back from the brink of death for you. He stood by both you and your wife during the nasty Magnussen business. He opened up both his home and his heart to you - again - after you once again found yourself alone. In the end, he wasn't the one who left.

"Now, I know better than most that my brother isn't an easy man to love, Dr Watson. But you did. You truly returned his feelings, with equal intensity. Which made your leaving all the more reprehensible." Mycroft's voice increased in volume and stridency. "You panicked and, like the coward I never realised you were, you turned tail and fled, never considering the damage you were leaving behind. I once told you that bravery is just another word for stupidity, do you remember? It seems you no longer suffer from that condition, more's the pity."

John frowned, his face heating up with indignation and shame.

"I know my own failings intimately, Mycroft," he spluttered. "And that's not what…"

Mycroft's voice carried on smoothly over his own, as if he'd never spoken. "Even after you were gone, my brother kept the lines of communication open so that you would always have a way to come back, if you so chose. If you _do _so choose, and you manage once again to worm your way into his life, make sure that you're prepared to _stay _this time. I won't abide it if you break his heart again. I would make some kind of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

The connection abruptly cut off. John frowned at his phone, confused. Mycroft had indicated that he was going to tell John where Sherlock was now. After all his bluster and fuss, had he changed his mind?

Then a text alert pinged. It contained an address near Brighton, complete with directions. Another text followed, short and frustratingly ambiguous. Even so, John knew that the wording was in direct contradiction to the sender's actual sentiments.

_I do hope you're not allergic to bees. –MH_

**To be continued...**


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: I refer to January 31, 2010 as being the date that John and Sherlock first moved in together as flatmates. In my mind January 29 is the day they met at Bart's, Jan. 30 is when they meet to look at the flat and get involved with their first case, and the day after that John officially moved into 221b Baker Street.**

**Warning, if you need one : first kiss and first time between our boys, nothing explicit.**

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><p>John's hands clasped the handle of his luggage, knuckles white from his tight grip. His mouth was set in a thin, tense line. More than eight hours had passed since his conversation with Mycroft, and yet his agitation hadn't settled. John really wasn't surprised; Mycroft had always had the ability to guilt-trip him into emotional knots when it came to Sherlock.<p>

Sherlock and John's parting, as bittersweet as it had been, hadn't been nearly as dramatic as Mycroft had insinuated over the phone. John hadn't just up and disappeared with no warning, severing all contact and leaving no trace. He may have lacked a certain brand of courage, but he could never have been _that_ cruel. It annoyed him beyond all reason that Mycroft not only believed him unaware of but also indifferent to the heartache he had caused. As if John hadn't been hurting just as much.

After John's move to Scotland, he and Sherlock had continued texting on a regular basis. Emails were more rare, but they did happen every so often. Phone calls were even rarer, but that had been the case during their entire acquaintance. As time went on, though, the texts became briefer and less frequent. The emails turned into terse one-liners, then tapered off altogether.

The last communication John received from Sherlock had been a comment on his blog 'correcting' an entry he had posted on medical diagnostic techniques for Alzheimer's. That had been ten years ago. John had posted an exasperated response of, "Yes, thank you, Doctor Holmes, knower of all things. Need I remind you that medicine is _not your area?"_ He hadn't received a reply back, but that wasn't at all surprising. It was just Sherlock showing off again, per usual. Some things never did change, regardless of the miles that separated them.

Several months after that final exchange, John had emailed Sherlock with condolences after reading about the death of his father. John hoped he would get a reply, perhaps get a regular correspondence started up again, but it never happened. He didn't hear from Sherlock again.

Now that he had heard of Mrs Hudson's passing, he wondered what had stopped Sherlock from reaching out to him with the news. Surely he understood how important she had been to both of them, that perhaps they could have comforted each other and made the pain a bit less.

Then again, maybe not. This was Sherlock he was talking about, after all. Genius or no, he was the most oblivious person John had ever met.

He was interrupted from his thoughts when he felt someone jostle past him. Blinking, he found himself at the entrance to his hotel. He scrubbed a hand over his face, exhausted and mind moving at the rate of molasses in January. His body went through the motions of checking in at the front desk, mindlessly handing over his credit card and ID. Once in his room, he opened his holdall and gingerly lifted out his laptop. After flipping it open and turning it on (he had had no need for a password for several years now), he opened the mini-bar and retrieved a small bottle of scotch. He threw his head back and gulped it down in two swallows. Liquid courage imbibed, he nodded at his reflection in the mirror before grabbing his computer and sitting down on the bed. He typed in the URL for Sherlock's website, then anxiously cracked his knuckles as he waited for the page to load.

Once it did, he painstakingly read through all the entries that he had missed since he stopped obsessively checking it years ago. There were hundreds of posts, dealing with everything from mundane, simple cases to esoteric treatises that made John's head spin just from reading the abstracts. But he read through each and every one, until he got to the very last entry, posted just seven days ago.

It was the thesis that had recently earned Sherlock his doctorate degree - something John hadn't even been aware he had been working on. The title brought him up short: _The Ameliorative Effects of __Coenzyme Q10__ on the Progression of Alzheimer's in the Aged. _He blinked. Now _that _was unexpected. Sherlock was a chemist, yes, but John never expected that he would be interested in the medical aspect of the subject.

Pride swelled in his chest for his ex-flatmate. Pride, and not a little bit of regret. He had missed so much. He would have enjoyed being involved in Sherlock's academic process; maybe he could even have been his editor, lend his own medical expertise to things.

What else had he missed during the past decade and a half?

John shook his head. Whatever he had missed, Sherlock had obviously done very well for himself without him. Maybe it was a mistake trying to insert himself back into a life where he no longer belonged. Mycroft had just been playing the part of the elder sibling, exaggerating the effect John's leaving had had on his baby brother.

Well, he was here now; he might as well forge ahead, come what may.

He took out his phone and once again opened his London contact list. He stared at the first name on the list for a full minute before he decided he needed a refill of courage. After retrieving what he needed from the fridge, he settled on top of the bed, tiny bottle of scotch in one hand and phone in the other. He took a swallow of the liquor before finally punching in a message and hitting 'send.'

_Sherlock. Are you there?_

He held his breath, grip tightening on his phone.

Not two seconds later, he got a reply.

**_John?_**

His stomach settled immediately, and he let out his breath.

_Yes, it's me. Wanted to let you know that I'm in London. __Would it be OK if I come see you?_

**_For you, my door is always open. Please come whenever it's convenient. I must tell you, however, that I'm no longer at Baker Street. -SH_**

John simultaneously felt both incredible relief and overwhelming guilt. The tone of Sherlock's text was completely different from the kind he used to send on an almost daily basis. Instead of curt and demanding, it was open-ended and accommodating. It also hinted at desperate loneliness, a state of being John had thought Sherlock Holmes was incapable of experiencing.

_I know. Mycroft told me. Are you free tomorrow afternoon?_

**_Yes, of course. -SH_**

_I'll see you then._

**_Take care, John. And sleep well. -SH_**

John switched off his phone and closed his eyes. Mycroft had been wrong about one thing. Sherlock was not a hard man to love, not in the least. If more people would just take the time to get to _know _him - to put forth more than a token effort at understanding him - they would come to the same realisation John had: that underneath that great brain lay a heart equally as great. And that when Sherlock Holmes finally opened himself up to love, there was nothing on this earth he wouldn't do for the object, or objects, of that love.

John used to know all that, deep in his bones, but along the way he had forgotten. He had been so full of fear that he had run as far away as it was possible to run and still remain in the UK. It had taken fifteen years and more than 500 miles of distance for John to regain the clarity he had lost all those years ago. Hindsight, after all, was 20-20.

John pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to calm his chaotic thoughts. Introspection had never been his strong suit, but the pull of the past offered an escape by giving him something to think about other than the upcoming reunion. _Start with something pleasant_, he thought. _Work your way towards the dodgy bits later. What is your best memory from that time?_

Well, that one was easy. Behind his eyelids, John pulled up an image of Sherlock's recent texts. He imagined those words being spoken in Sherlock's rich, velvety voice - a voice John hadn't heard in far too long. Arousal shivered down his spine. From there, it was easy to slip into the memory, to let himself feel the emotions and picture the surroundings, to imagine the sensations, to _remember..._

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><p><strong><em>January 31, 2017<em>**

_The restaurant looks the same as it did that very first night - same decor, same pictures on the wall, same tablecloths, same flickering candles. Even the staff is the same, except for a couple of additions from Angelo's family. John grins, so much happiness stuffed inside him that it threatens to spill out of every pore. It wasn't so long ago that he believed he would never be happy again, never be anything more than a sad scooped-out shell of a man. But another miracle had been pulled off, once again by the man sitting across from him sporting an identical grin. _

_John had moved back to Baker Street exactly one year ago, two months after the devastating loss of Mary and Emily. Hence, their celebration tonight. The significance of the date isn't lost on John, and he's sure it isn't lost on Sherlock either. He can't resist teasing his flatmate - his flatmate! - about that fact._

_"The first time I moved in with you was on this date, seven years ago," John says with a gleam in his eye. "You have a clever sense of symmetry, don't you?"_

_Sherlock smirks as he brings his glass of wine to his lips. He takes a sip and momentarily closes his eyes in appreciation. John's eyes linger a bit too long on those lips before snapping back to Sherlock's penetrating gaze._

_"Really, John," Sherlock replies in a voice that sends tremors through John's body, "you think far too highly of me if you believe I can manipulate events so precisely. Mycroft, on the other hand …" _

_John lets out a high giggle, amused out of all proportion at Sherlock's little joke. This in turn elicits rumbling laughter from the depths of Sherlock's chest. The elderly patrons at the next table throw them a dark look. John notices but doesn't care, and that in itself is a major shift from all of their previous outings. Sherlock had never been bothered by other people's disapproval or insinuations, but John always had. Until now, apparently._

_Something flutters in his chest and in the depths of his belly; a tingling sensation travels from his fingertips all the way down to his toes. A thrill of anticipation travels down his spine. It feels like Possibility… but that's not quite right. It's more like - _

_Suddenly the atmosphere surrounding their immediate vicinity crackles with invisible energy. He can almost make out a low electric hum buzzing just under the threshold of audible sound, and he would swear there's a mirage-like shimmering in the space between them. The name for what he's sensing quickly becomes clear, as it's the same thing he experienced the first time he stepped into the same room as Sherlock Holmes._

_It's called Potential._

_For some reason, a jolt of fear slices through John, but he quickly suppresses it. Today is not a day for hesitation. It is a day for throwing caution to the wind, for grabbing opportunity with both hands and never letting go. Resisting his friend's magnetic pull has always been an exercise in futility. He's never before failed to jump in with both feet when it came to Sherlock, why should he start now? _

_Sherlock's eyes widen, and John knows he feels it, too. Their laughter dies down, and they stare at each other wordlessly. The air around them is charged with expectancy, but neither of them knows what they're waiting for. _

_It's at that exact moment that Billy arrives with their food, and the tension evaporates like so much mist. They settle into light conversation and banter, sharing reminiscences of the past year, moments that stuck with each of them and why. It's simultaneously the most intimate and the most relaxed interaction they've ever had. The wine makes everything soft and less jagged around the edges. Sherlock is particularly lovely (or has he always been like that?), face animated and eyes bright, affection and tenderness shining forth in his expressions. John is positive he's never seen Sherlock look at him like that before. He hopes that he never stops._

_Gratitude swells in John's chest, for all the kindnesses Sherlock has shown him since the unexpected deaths of his wife and child. John had valiantly tried to struggle through on his own for a while, until it had become clear that he required some sort of anchor; otherwise he would have continued drifting until he had lost all sense of direction. His limp had started to rear its ugly head again, as well as his tremor. As always, Sherlock had sensed his need, pulling him back into a safe harbour and providing him with sanctuary. John loves him for it, with a fierceness that transcends anything he's ever felt for anyone else. _

_Including Mary._

_Another frisson of apprehension threatens to take hold, but he ruthlessly quashes it. He's not sure where it came from or what it means, but he refuses to let it determine the evening's direction. He's always relied on his instincts, and they've never steered him wrong. _

_By the time dessert has been polished off, John is replete with both food and goodwill. This day has been utterly perfect. John is filled with confidence that nothing the future holds can possibly detract from it in any way. It's not the wine that's the source of his sanguinity, at least not completely; he's only had three glasses spread out over a three-hour meal. These are true, authentic feelings, unenhanced by artificial means. From the look on Sherlock's face, he's experiencing the same emotions._

_Sherlock looks at him over the rim of his coffee cup._

_"How are you, John?" he asks, voice soft._

_John knows what he's really asking. He appreciates it, he does, but he no longer wants to dwell on the past. He only wants to look forward, take control and create the direction his future takes._ _So he takes the question at face value and answers accordingly._

_"I'm excited. Things are starting to feel like they did when we first lived together, after we figured out how we fit. It feels like we finally have that back, and I'm looking forward to every new adventure that's bound to come our way."_

_Sherlock's mouth quirks. "Why can't you be that eloquent when you write up our cases on your blog?"_

Our cases. _John blinks, horrified at the sudden prickling behind his eyes. He swallows. To his credit, he recovers swiftly._

_"Need to get back into practice, I suppose," John says lightly. "Been a while, you know. Not all of us are naturally brilliant at everything we put our hand to."_

_Sherlock rolls his eyes._

_"Honestly, if you really think I'm brilliant at everything I've ever tried, you are seriously deluded."_

_John leans back in his chair and crosses his arms._

_"Really? Name one thing you attempted that you've failed at."_

_Sherlock's smile fades. His expression becomes almost vulnerable, and he averts his eyes before answering._

_"Protecting your wife and child."_

_John instantly sobers. He leans forward and places his hand over Sherlock's. _

_"Sherlock, look at me."_

_Sherlock shakes his head, face still turned away._

_John reaches over with his other hand to grasp Sherlock's chin and gently turns his head to face him._

_"Sherlock, please look at me."_

_Sherlock raises his eyes until they lock with John's. John holds his gaze, his expression ordering Sherlock to maintain eye contact._

_"That was not your fault," he states firmly. "There was nothing anyone could have done. And I never held you responsible. Never."_

_John releases Sherlock's chin. He goes to remove his hand from Sherlock's, but Sherlock holds on with a death grip._

_"No," Sherlock says, voice hoarse and raw with suppressed emotion. John squeezes his hand in reassurance, surprised at the naked vulnerability on Sherlock's face. Before he can stop himself, he reaches up and brushes the fringe off of Sherlock's forehead, hand lingering on the side of his head. Sherlock leans into the touch, eyes fluttering shut. _

_"Oh," John whispers, in sudden realisation. _

_Sherlock opens his eyes, and John is stunned to see them shining with longing and desire._

_Then Sherlock turns his head slightly and places a kiss on John's palm, and John is lost in a haze of arousal so intense he momentarily loses all sense of time and place._

_Thank God Sherlock has the presence of mind to settle the bill and hustle John out of the restaurant and into a cab. The tension continues to thrum between them during the mercifully short ride back to Baker Street. John knows he never would have made it all the way up to the flat with his shaky legs if Sherlock hadn't been a steady presence behind him, a guiding hand on the small of his back. They step over the threshold, hang up their coats and turn as one to face each other. _

_Sherlock wears a black suit and a blood-red shirt, and he is absolutely _stunning. _John has always been aware that his flatmate is an objectively attractive man, and yet this is the first time that he has felt a physical yearning for him, a desire to express his affection with touches and caresses and … kisses._

_Sherlock looks at him with wild eyes filled with fear. John says softly, "It's okay", and that seems to be enough to soothe his apprehensions. Sherlock steps forward and rests his hand on John's arm._

_"May I kiss you?" he asks, so tentative and shy that John's heart melts into a puddle at his feet. If he hadn't completely been Sherlock's before, he certainly would be now. _

_"Yes," John replies breathlessly._

_Sherlock takes John's face in his hands, leans down and places the softest, sweetest kiss on his lips. The gesture is so achingly tender that John has to fight to keep back the tears. But he wants more, he _needs_ more. He grabs Sherlock by the back of the neck and pulls him down further, deepening the kiss and eliciting a soft moan from the detective. The lust that had been ignited earlier in the restaurant once again flares to life, brighter and stronger than ever. He feels Sherlock's erection against his thigh, and the knowledge that he's wanted as much as he wants fills him with fierce satisfaction._

_Sherlock abruptly breaks the kiss, and John immediately feels bereft, the absence of that hard body against his own an acute loss. _

_"John," Sherlock says, voice rough. "I need you to know that I can't - I don't…"_

_John reins in his supreme impatience, tries to tamp down the fiery desire raging through his veins._

_"In your own time, Sherlock." _But quite quickly, _he thinks hysterically._

_"John. This can't just be a one-off. This," he waves a hand between them, "isn't a casual thing for me, I … I won't share - this - with anyone else. Do you understand what I'm saying?"_

_Something inside John's chest loosens and profound relief settles into his bones. His thumb caresses Sherlock's cheekbone. He smiles._

_"I understand completely."_

_After that, time and space are irrelevant. Clothing is shed, bodies fall onto a bed, naked skin slides against naked skin, sighs and gasps break the silence of the night, hands clasp and lips kiss, names are called out in the midst of ecstasy -_

_And at the end of it all, he is sheltered by strong arms and surrounded by a warm, pliant body. Sherlock's nose is tucked into the nape of his neck. For the first time in his life he feels - whole. Complete. _

_He swears to hold onto that feeling for the rest of his life._

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><p><strong>To be continued...<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

I received 0 reviews for the last chapter, so I can only assume it sucked and/or there is no interest. If I don't hear from anybody else then I will not continue posting this story here. I'm already discouraged, and this just seems to validate my fear that I'm really no good at this.


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